Tag: Wilshire Blvd.

George Packard on Wilshire Blvd, Los Angeles

George Packard, retired schoolteacher, took a stroll down Wilshire Blvd. He’d walked this stretch of Wilshire Blvd. countless times before. They called it the Miracle Mile area, a euphemism, a PR ploy. Whatever. George Packard just knew that he liked to walk down Wilshire. It was the most city-like of all LA’s streets. George Packard prided himself on his familiarity with the streets and neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Say what you like, George had become enamored of the huge, sprawl that comprised the metropolis called Los Angeles. He enjoyed learning its streets, it’s freeways, its endless thoroughfares.

George had always been fascinated by geography. It was a particular fascination, particular to him. That is to say, most people were not so curious, not nearly as interested in geography as he was. George was unusual in this respect. Aside from delivery men and taxi drivers, most people didn’t care about streets and where things were. In any case, today many people relied on GPS devices; they never figured streets out; they never really knew where they were, where they stood. But George had always loved to learn about geography, about other countries and cultures. He loved to travel for this reason. A new city was like a new book, unopened and unread.

 

 

 

 

 

His Grandmother used to call him “Curious George”, a disparaging sort of moniker, at least that is how he perceived it. And young George was correct. For “being a curious monkey” was not a compliment in Grandma’s book. Indeed, Grandma herself possessed no curiosity, only a thirst for money and position. What was the sense in being curious? One had to be practical in life. As a child, George couldn’t understand why he couldn’t be practical, why he could never really fit in. But now that he was older, he was glad that he was still a Curious George.

As I Sat On The Bus Story (#24): A Solution to Writer’s Block and a Song

Send in your stories, photos, poems, songs and other interesting thoughts that start with – or somewhere imply “As I Sat On The Bus”. Just get on the bus and you’ll start writing. Send it in via the Comments section

**********************************************

People ask about writer’s block: the difficulty in writing consistently, in producing words. It’s not easy to write! Some writers barricade themselves up in a garret, or lock themselves in their rooms, forcing themselves to write at least 50 thousand words a week. Something like that. Some crazy target.

Other writers write for these blogs. They write every day. They come up with something each and every day for the blog. 200 blog words a day. Something. Anything. For a while they’re really into it. But after a year or two they usually grow weary. They ask themselves why the heck they’re writing on this blog thing for anywaze. What for? All the same, the blogging often becomes a bit of an obsession for them. A daily obligation. Bumba, for instance, even began his blog with a plan of “every day another story”- or something stupid like that. That’s what he titled his blog. If you don’t believe me, you can scroll up and check the Header. It says Every Day Another Story. You know, he just figured he’d have a new story every day. He also figured that he could get contributions from other authors as well. What’s more he hoped to present several of his own books that were already written. His intentions were noble. You have to grant him that. But then he winds up using various shortcuts. He posts every other day. Or he just posts some songs that he recorded on the guitar the day before and calls that a post.

Such is Bumba’s answer to writer’s block. What the?

**************************************************************

IMG_1065As I sat on the bus I waited for the inspiration to come. I knew that if I rode the bus I would soon find the muse. It would just come to me. The bus is my muse. I would overcome the current bout of writer’s block. The writer’s block thing would simply dissolve into the mumblings and rumblings of the #20 bus as it rattled its way down Wilshire Blvd.

After passing the LACMA Museum I noticed some new buildings going up at La Brea. Further down there was a shiny new car dealership. Then a series of strip malls. Places to eat. Crossing Highland, the bus entered into a more gentrified stretch of Wilshire. No more commercial stores. Some corporate offices. Some nicely landscaped condos. The drove by the fabled Fremont Estates.

The ride down Wilshire, arguably Los Angeles’ greatest boulevard, might make a swell idea for a story, a saga perhaps, a grand quasi-literary tour of L.A., I thought. Hmmmm.

……..Naah, better to just present a song

If you ever go to Houston

Tell them all I said hello.

IMG_1013

George Packard on Wilshire Blvd, Los Angeles

George Packard, retired schoolteacher, took a stroll down Wilshire Blvd.  He’d walked this stretch of Wilshire Blvd. countless times before. They called it the Miracle Mile area, a euphemism, a PR ploy. Whatever. George Packard just knew that he liked to walk down Wilshire. It was the most city-like of all LA’s streets. George Packard prided himself on his familiarity with the streets and neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Say what you like, George had become enamored of the huge, sprawl that comprised the metropolis called Los Angeles. He enjoyed learning its streets, it’s freeways, its endless thoroughfares.

George had always been fascinated by geography. It was a particular fascination, particular to him. That is to say, most people were not so curious, not nearly as interested in geography as he was. George was unusual in this respect. Aside from delivery men and taxi drivers, most people didn’t care about streets and where things were. In any case, today many people relied on GPS devices; they never figured streets out; they never really knew where they were, where they stood. But George had always loved to learn about geography, about other countries and cultures. He loved to travel for this reason. A new city was like a new book, unopened and unread.

His Grandmother used to call him “Curious George”, a disparaging sort of moniker, at least that is how he perceived it. Being a curious monkey was not a compliment in Grandma’s book. Indeed, Grandma possessed no curiosity, only a thirst for money and position. What was the sense in being curious? One had to be practical in life. As a child, George couldn’t understand why he couldn’t be practical, why he could never really fit in. But now that he was older, he was glad that he was still a Curious George.